if getting michael jackson tickets and not getting to see michael jackson was the biggest concert let down in my wee little life, then getting prince tickets and going to see prince was the best consolation prize.

prince was PHENOMENAL.

from the moment he popped out of the floor of his namesake symbol shaped stage, with gold glittered (well fitted) pants, the crowd was HIS. he looked great, he sounded incredible, he was epic and intimate at once. he played four different guitars, he did three costume changes, he danced his fancy footwork from one end of that swirly stage to the other.

he did an mj cover of don't stop 'til you get enough and he did an explosively epic version of when doves cry during his second encore when the crowd REFUSED to go home. seriously, the house lights were on and people were mopping the stage but we all kept clapping and screaming and he came back out and that telling guitar solo started and i actually. lost. my. mind.

even now, the morning after, with my sore throat and my slow ass version of itunes downloading the best of prince album, when i think about last night i get goosebumps. THAT is what concerts are all about.

i actually transcended to a higher plane. prince was there, singing raspberry beret.

my mom comes every year at this time and it's always a whirlwind of talking, eating, and walking outdoors. november is the last month you can pretend it's going to be fall forever and we certainly take full advantage of that - bundling her up in her bc warmest and taking her to all our favourite natural spots.

we supplemented our walks with homemade grub and warm drinks and literally watched as the last leaves fell from their reluctant holdings.

thanks for coming, mom! fall in ontario bids you, and the rest of us, adieu.

the place i work, the actual physical landscape where i go every day of the week to do my job, is unbelievably beautiful.

the truth about occupations, even if you enjoy them, is that they're work. deadlines and accountability and expectations can add up to a healthy sum of stress no matter who you are and how many downward dogs you do.

but when you work in a space as magical, as wild, as engaging to all of your senses,

and when you can walk out of your office and into that space for your lunch,

or for a stroll,

or to sit on the ledge of the north slope and marvel at the fall colours - weaving bracelets out of grass,

you count your lucky stars that somehow the world conspired to bring you there. and you think that any sort of stress can't help but be beaten back by the patient, gracious grandeur of nature.

that moment of silence gets me every time. every time. it's the collective nature of it for sure like how i tear up listening to choral singing but it's also the idea that we take a minute, just one, to remember.

sometimes i wonder what i'm supposed to be remembering so i think about wars present and wars past and millions upon millions of people losing their lives or taking lives or saving lives and soon i'm overwhelmed.

and grateful.

and humbled.

it's ironic (or maybe not) that the deepest, darkest, scariest place you can attempt to go to connect with humanity, sits completely in silence.

this is our favourite tree on the lawn of our apartment. it's an american beech with a large door in its trunk where lightening or fire has gouged its tattoo. mushrooms grow in there and sometimes people put their junk but we always fish it out. we do other things to look after it also like sit under its low sweeping branches and have picnics.

ain't she a beaut?! she's getting ready for the cold right now with her yearly performance of brilliant orange art. even in winter, i will stop to remember she's in there.

i'm reading a book called 'you are here', subtitled 'discovering the magic in the present moment'. the delicious (and humorous) allure of judging that title aside, i do think there's something to this notion that you aspire to live your life, fully, in the here and now.

there are times it's easier to live in this mindful way. like when you're preparing a grapefruit on a saturday morning and you find yourself completely taken by its smell and its shape and the way the sun is drawn to it like something it remembers creating.

you notice the asymmetrical segments of citrus, hinting at hearts or teardrops, and you understand in that moment, there's nothing more worthy of your full attention.